Where We Belong
by xXWrittenSinsXx
Summary: AU - Three weeks after the death of his mother, Stiles' father moves them out of Beacon Hills for a change of scenery due to Stiles' constant panic attacks. In the new town, Faypines, Stiles seeks refuge from a bully at a small, cozy bakery called 'Hales' Bakery'. There he meets Derek and Laura Hale. Derek/Stiles - Full summary inside.


Summary:

_"Home is not where you live, but where they understand you." - Christian Morganstern _

Three weeks ago, Stiles lost his mother, leaving Stiles and his father grief stricken. Everything in Beacon Hills holds a memory of her. When Stiles begins to suffer constant panic attacks, John does the only thing he can think of: He moves them far away from Beacon Hills to a small town six and a half hours away called Faypines. Still reeling from his mother's death, Stiles finds himself alone and friendless in a town he never even knew existed before his father announced they were moving there. Then one day, while avoiding a bully, Stiles stumbles upon a small cozy bakery tucked away down a dark narrow side street called _Hales' Bakery_. There he meets Derek and Laura Hale.

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Notes: AU - Stiles' mother passes away when he's 16. The Hale fire still happened; Derek and Laura moved away from Beacon Hills after the fire, leaving Peter in long-term care. Stiles doesn't have his jeep in the beginning. Scott, Jackson, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are human.

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Autumn was unusually wet this year, as if the sky itself was in mourning. Stiles watched the cars pass by them on the freeway, streaks of light in the misty gray gloom. The radio droned softly in the background, barely audible over the drumming of the rain. Occasionally, John would grumble about reckless drivers, but otherwise neither of them talked. It wasn't that Stiles was mad at him because he really wasn't, at least not anymore. He knew his dad was doing this for his sake just as much as his own, if not more. They both needed a change, needed to get away from that house, that town, that was full of memories of her. And yet, even if Stiles couldn't walk into the grocery store without remembering all the times he had gone shopping with his mom and having a panic attack, he didn't want to move. He didn't want to leave Beacon Hills. He didn't want to leave his friends: Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and even Danny who Stiles had grown used to having around. He had tried to explain this to his dad, but it didn't matter. No amount of arguing or whining mattered because as much as he begged to remain in Beacon Hills, the panic attacks said otherwise.

No, Stiles wasn't angry anymore. He was defeated.

"I know it doesn't seem like it now, but this will be good for you, for us," John said, breaking the silence that had settled. They were the same words John has been parroting since he had announced they were moving. Stiles wasn't sure if it was for his benefit or for John's. Maybe if he said it enough, he'd actually believe it. "You'll make new friends Stiles and your old friends can come visit whenever they want."

"Four hundred and thirty eight miles, that's how faraway Faypines is from Beacon Hills. That's a six and a half four drive," Stiles said, voice void of emotion as he stared listlessly out the window.

"Six and a half hours isn't that bad," John tried. Stiles finally pulled himself away from the window to look at him, his bitter, red-rimmed sleepless eyes saying all that needed to be said. John sighed. "Okay, maybe they won't visit every weekend, but they will visit. You know they will."

And Stiles did know they will. Even Jackson, despite the love-hate relationship they shared, will come visit him, but when? How often? Thirteen hours to drive back and forth. Stiles knew the visits were going to be few and far between as much as his friends cared about him and Stiles couldn't blame them. They all had school and work, not to mention their own lives to live. And yet, even if Stiles understood it, it still hurt.

Stiles didn't bother to respond, returning to staring lifelessly out the window. John gave up on trying to start a conversation and began fiddling with the radio. He turned it onto a country station and raised the volume, Kenny Rodgers' _The Gambler_ filling the silence. Stiles knew his dad was trying to provoke him, trying to set him off on a rant about how country music was the worst music alive and beg him turn it like he would've before. Now, Stiles didn't complain, didn't even utter a sound. John slumped back into his seat with a defeated sigh.

Stiles gave a sigh of his own and leaned his head back against his seat, his eyes slipping closed. He was exhausted. He hadn't truly slept since the night before that phone call that changed everything. Now, Stiles was lucky if he managed a couple hours before waking to a panic attack, unable to breath, clawing and gasping into the suffocating darkness as a choked sob tears from his throat, tears burning his eyes, and a whisper of a name dying on his lips. Another sigh. Stiles slipped further down his seat. He focused on the radio as the song came to an end because as much as he hate country music anything was better than being left to his thoughts. The intro of the new song began and Stiles forgot how to breathe.

_He's got a smile that it seems to me_ _Reminds me of childhood memories __Where everything was—_

Stiles reached out and slammed his hand against the radio knob so fast his seat-belt locked around him, choking him until he slumped back into his seat, gasping for breath. A heavy silence was left in the radio's wake. Stiles stared fixedly out the window, pretending not to notice his dad's eyes on him, tight with concern, pain, and just a bit of fear. Stiles clenched his jaw and fought back the burn in his eyes as a memory surfaced unbidden in his mind of a beautiful woman swinging a younger him around the kitchen as she sung _Sweet Child O' Mine_ on the top of her lungs, her off-key voice and his giggles completely drowning out Sheryl Crow's voice. It hurt. God it hurt.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence. John made no attempts to turn the radio back on, no doubt afraid he'd trigger another reaction like that from Stiles or worse, a panic attack. At some point during the long car drive exhaustion won out and before Stiles knew it, his eyes were slipping closed and he was dead to the world.

The second his eyes closed, his mom was there, waiting for him. Her smile, her laugh, her voice, the scent of the sweat pea perfume she loved so much—everything. She filled his dreams, carrying through them like she had since she had passed away. It was always the same. He'd remember memories of her and his dad and him together, happy and laughing, and yet, he couldn't find happiness in the memories because even in his sleep, a part of his brain knew what was coming next. A phone call. One of his parents dead, sometimes both. Wake to a panic attack, sobbing and gasping as horrible gut-wrenching emptiness fills his chest where his heart should be. This time though he was shaken awake before the phone call and out of the memories of his mom.

"Mom," The sleepy whisper left his lips before he could stop it, a longing ache in his voice as his mom faded away with his dreams and consciousness returned. His eyes slipped open blearily and he stared at the dashboard in front of him, mind still groggy with sleep. He noted absently that the shaking had stopped. The shaking had stopped. He was awake in seconds, straightening up in his seat and fumbling with his seat-belt.

"Are we here?" Stiles asked, not looking at his dad. He couldn't. Not after he had just let that word slip. He didn't want to see his expression right now, didn't want to see the hurt he knew would be there.

"Yeah," John said after a long moment, and Stiles could hear the pain in his voice no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Stiles finally managed to free himself from his seat-belt and he stumbled out of the car frantically, suddenly needing to be out of it. He breathed in the cool, wet air and stretched out his aching body until finally, unable to put it off any longer, he turned to face his new home. It was a Victorian house, big for a normal-sized family, huge for just the two of them. The house was older, but the peeling light blue paint and rickety stairs gave it what most would consider was a warm, well-lived appearance. There was plenty of room between the neighbors, who were hidden on both sides by old weathered trees with hanging orange and yellow leaves, and bushes that framed the house, giving it an almost isolated feeling. Freshly mowed lawn, large, flowered bushed on either side of the walkway, and a rustic sign hanging from the porch that read _617_ in an antique font—it was the perfect picture of a cozy, small town home. Stiles took all this in with one glance before he grabbed one of his boxes out of the back of the car and trooped inside.

"Pick any bedroom you want," John called after him.

The inside of the house was similar to Scott's, with a small entrance, a room off to the right, and stairs straight ahead. Stiles headed upstairs and the old dark wood staircase groaned violently with every carefully placed step Stiles took. Stiles was half-afraid he was going to fall through to his death at any second. When he reached the top, thankfully in one piece, he tucked the box he was carrying awkwardly under one arm and proceeded to open every single door he passed. Finally, Stiles reached the last door and opened it. It was another bedroom, bigger than the first, but small than the second. It was just a little bigger than his old bedroom. Stiles walked inside and plopped the box onto the floor, claiming the room as his.

The room had the same dark flooring as the rest of the house and every few steps he took earned from a creak. The walls were a bright lime green, completely different than the dull blue his old room had been. There was only one window on the wall opposite the door and there were two white doors, one in the corner of the left wall closest to the door and one in the middle of the right wall. Stiles opened the left first and found it led to a small closet. The other door led to a private, medium-sized bathroom. The bathroom walls were the same lime green as the bedroom and the flooring consisted of sleek black tiles that matched the counters, shelves, shower, sink, and toilet.

Stiles closed the door and headed over to the window. It had a view of the backyard, which was surprisingly big and completely unnecessary, considering Stiles had long since surpassed the playing in the backyard age. He would've love it when he was eight, but now, all he thought when he looked out at expanse of green, was that he was probably going to end up the one in charge of mowing it. He opened the window and leaned outside for a better look. Only inches below the window was a roof with a gentle slope, big enough for him to easily stretch out on comfortably if he decided he wanted some fresh air. The roof was covered in dead orange, yellow, and red leaves, no doubt belonging to the tall tree beside it, close enough its thick branches hung over the roof.

"You like it?"

Stiles jumped at his dad's voice and slammed his head on the window. Swearing under his breath and rubbing his head, he pulled away from it and turned to find his dad standing in the doorway, watching him with a hopeful expression. Stiles knew he was hoping he would say he loved it, that it was better than his old house which, in all honesty, it was. The house was bigger and although it was older, his house hadn't exactly been new either. He had his own bathroom now and a closet he could cram all his random crap in. This house was a lot nicer than his older house, but that's all it was. A nice house. Not him like Beacon Hills and Stiles wouldn't have given up his home for a mansion.

"It's fine," was all Stiles said, before he brushed passed his dad and headed out to grab more boxes.

By the time the moves were done unloading, it was already dark outside, despite the fact that they had left Beacon Hills at 9am, the earliest the moving van was available. The drive alone had taken a good chunk out of the day. When everything was finally in the house, furniture where John directed it, the movers finally begun the drive back to Beacon Hills, pockets heavy with money. After they were gone, John and Stiles did a little more moving around, unpacking a few boxes, but neither of them were into it and it wasn't long before they called it quits and went to their new bedrooms. Stiles hadn't expected to be able to sleep in this new place, but the second he collapsed onto his bare mattress, he was out like a light. His exhaustion was so complete that for once he didn't dream, or if he did, he didn't remember it when he woke up the next morning.

The next day was Saturday. Stiles spent the day helping his dad unpack and move in because despite all his protests against moving, he couldn't bring himself to make him do it alone, especially when nearly everything they owned contained a memory of his mom. They worked in silence, broken only by the occasional murmur of "pass me that" or "put that there." When one of them came across something that reminded them particularly strongly of Stiles' mom, they both pretended not to notice the others' reaction. When John found a picture of him and his wife on their wedding day, Stiles inspected a tiny hole in the floor with intent interest, feigning ignorance to the tears being rapidly blinked back in his dad's eyes. When Stiles stumbled upon his mom's old cook books and choked up, his dad did the same favor for him, looking discreetly at something else. When they got hungry, John suggested ordering a pizza. As he took out his cellphone, Stiles snatched it from him.

"I'll order it. If I leave it to you, you'll get the most unhealthy pizza possible," Stiles muttered.

As Stiles searched for the number of the Pizza Hut they had passed on the way here on his own phone, he didn't notice the strange look his dad was giving him. It wasn't until Stiles was giving his order to the pizzeria employee, reciting it exactly the way he had heard his mother order it a hundred times, he realized what he was doing. Halfway through the order he broke off, throat closing up. At his silence, the pizzeria employee prompted him to continue, and Stiles cleared his throat and finished, a new resolve washing through him. Making sure his dad ate healthy had always been his mom's job. Now it was up to him.

Sunday was spent the same way as Saturday. More unpacking, more memories, and some cold leftover pizza because neither of them could find the microwave among the mountain of boxes. Despite all the time spent unpacking, come Sunday night there were still boxes cluttering the hallways and room corners, filled with things they either couldn't find places for or couldn't be bothered to. Stiles knew those boxes would be there for a long time. Stiles' room was the only room completely unpacked, but only because Stiles spent all of Sunday night unpacking in an attempt to not think about tomorrow. It wasn't a coincidence that his dad had chosen to arrive on a Friday. Monday Stiles started school, after nearly a month of being out of it, and as if that wasn't bad enough, it was a school he had never been to before and he was 'the new kid'.

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Due to my inability to focus on one story at a time, I am a bit slow when it comes to updating, so bear with me okay? Keep in mind, nudging always helps ;) I'm sorry this chapter is so sad by the way, but the happy stuff is coming soon, I promise. Be warned, there will be a lot of sad angsty moments in this fic though (Stiles is still grieving after all), but hopefully the happy outweighs the sad. Also, this chapter is much shorter than future ones will be. My goal with this chapter was just basically introducing the story and setting. Rated Teen for now, might change later.

By the way, I love country music personally, so country fans don't take offense. I just think hating country suits Stiles' personality.

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*This story is also posted on my Ao3 account: /works/694650


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